


Sins of the Brother

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock wrecks the Bond Air scheme, Mycroft's 'Masters' punish him. He loves being, as one of them puts it, "a wriggling, panting slut."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Brother

As he groaned into the thick carpet, Mycroft was grateful that they’d gagged him. Otherwise his Masters would have known that he wasn’t in pain at all, and inflicted _real_ punishment.

Being forced to kneel naked in front of the softly roaring fire, a spreader bar holding his ankles apart and shoulders pressed against the floor, was the hottest thing he’d done since Irene Adler made him beg for mercy. Twice.

When they placed the thick silicone dildo into his hand, positioned the slicked head at his unprepared hole, and ordered him to fuck himself with it, he performed admirably. He shook his head in a convincing display of fear, uttered garbled pleas behind the black silk scarf tied over his mouth, and even put up a pathetic struggle. When a warm palm descended on his upturned arse with a vicious _crack_ , Mycroft pretended to surrender and forced the dildo into his arse, hissing and shuddering for good measure.

This whole ritual was intended as punishment for letting Sherlock ruin the Bond Air scheme. He’d suspected the intentions of his Masters after he left the office to find his bodyguards conspicuously absent. When the black van with the unique silver insignia drew up, Mycroft was certain what was afoot and refused to go gracefully. One of the minders sent to retrieve him received a broken nose, while another had his arm fractured between the wrist and elbow. They eventually subdued him, but as he watched the first aid kit being passed around during the ride to the Diogenes Club, he smiled.

His Masters ordered him to fuck himself like a cheap whore while they sat in leather armchairs around the gently roaring fire. If he opened his eyes, he saw handmade Italian leather shoes resting lazily on the expensive rug. A flare of his nostrils sucked in the rich scent of burning wood and thirty-year-old scotch. He smiled yet again, knowing that the fools would mistake the gesture for a grimace of pain.

As he plunged the monstrous toy in and out of his reddened entrance, Mycroft tried not to smirk. He was supposed to be feeling penitent, after all. His stiff cock was drooling precum onto the floor, but the fools likely interpreted that as a natural response to the prostate stimulation.

“Harder,” one of them ordered, and he complied with an obligatory whimper. Mycroft slowly pulled the dildo out until his sphincter clenched around the mere tip, and then thrust it back in. Excess lube spilled out and trickled down his thighs, making one of the Masters sneer.

“If only your associates could see you now, Mr. Holmes. They think you’re untouchable. But all we see is a wriggling, panting slut.” 

Another joined in. “Yes, Holmes. You’re a whore, a mindless hole needing to be filled. Isn’t that right?”

Mycroft nodded obediently and moaned, doing his damndest to sound like he was begging for mercy instead of more. He rotated his hips, sucking the toy deeper into his arse, angling it so that every thrust grazed his prostate. 

He knew that the Masters were all taciturn men with a penchant for womanizing, but even they could watch a ‘wriggling, panting slut’ for only so long. Mycroft’s sharp ears detected an uncomfortable change in their breathing and a creak of leather as they shifted in their seats a little too rapidly. This was the critical point. They’d either bring the ‘torment’ to an end or lose control. 

“Come for us, you slut,” one of them finally snapped in ragged tones. 

Mycroft pushed the dildo in one final time, the tendons in his wrist standing out with the force of his thrust. He gave a choked cry around the gag just before his entire body stiffened and orgasm swept through him. Then he shook and shuddered with the sheer intensity of it, his free hand digging into the rug and ruining its smooth surface. He spurted everywhere: on the floor, across his lowered chest, even onto his chin. When his legs could no longer support him he rolled onto his side, panting like he’d just run a marathon. The toy slid wetly out of his stretched entrance and onto the towel that had been laid out behind him for that purpose. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him, making his thighs tremble and wet cock twitch. The heat from the nearby fire felt so good against his sweaty skin. 

Footsteps approached. Manicured fingers stroked his hair. 

“I trust the lesson has been learned, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft nodded dutifully. But he was already plotting what he could do to make Sherlock fuck up again soon.

 

 


End file.
